Simon Armitage: ‘What would Wordsworth have said seeing me guzzling this lot?’

Restaurants are theatres, right? The food is the play, but the service is the performance. So I don’t want the waitress who puts her thumb in the soup or the wine waiter who takes the foil seal off the bottle with the end of his fingernail, because that’s what I do at home. And tonight, let it be said, it’s a great show. We’re fussed over by smiley, attentive and informative staff dressed like Victorian gillies or flamboyant snooker players, all of whom know their lines and play their parts to Bafta-winning standards. We’re at the table now and, because my motto has always been “In for a penny, in for £140 plus 12.5% discretionary service charge”, we’re going the whole eight courses, beginning with custard made from west coast kelp. It’s daft but delicious, and if seaweed really is the food of tomorrow, I say bring on tomorrow.

Seating-wise, we’re all in this together. No private alcoves, nowhere to feel superior, everyone on the shop floor, with the next table just close enough to hear a guy mansplaining the production values of Radiohead’s OK Computer to his fascinated partner but far enough away for us to mimic him out of earshot. Maybe he’s responding to the soundtrack on the PA, because the tender hand-dived scallops are accompanied by an early Arctic Monkeys single and, three songs later, I begin to wonder if the pairing aspect of tonight’s meal extends beyond the wine cellar to an indie playlist – Meat is Murder by the Smiths with the Wye Valley asparagus, the Cocteau Twins’ Sugar Hiccup to go with dessert.

Tasty mouthfuls of Cartmel Valley rabbit come and go – it’s amazing how the addition of a place name makes the food so much better. But I should have mentioned the bread, a glowing honey-glazed mini milk-loaf wheeled in by a ruddy-faced cherub of a lad. It sits in the middle of our table like a gold ingot or baby Jesus in a nativity scene. It’s so good I eat it with my hands, tearing off hanks and swabbing butter straight from the dish.

I should also have name-checked the wine, because by now I’m two glasses into a 2023 Yarra Valley Savarro (£65 per bottle), a new one on me, but it won’t be the last, and am being poured a third by the very charming Polish sommelier. This is always my favourite part of a posh meal: the booze is kicking in, there’s still half a bottle left and the big-ticket items are yet to leave the kitchen. But before they do, here come the Ruby Queen beetroots, brought to the table on a trolley, announced with a volley of adjectives that I don’t catch below the jangle of REM’s Man on the Moon, and served with the sort of high ceremony usually reserved for a coronation. Unguents and chrisms are ritualistically dribbled and drizzled, an anointing of some kind seems to be taking place, but what eventually lands on my tongue is unexceptional. Trust me, chefs of the world, fresh and bloody beetroot straight from the allotment is the business, and no end of cordon blue pimping will improve it.

Unlike the flesh of the humble cod, a fish crying out for culinary embellishment, but on this occasion not even the geographical designation “North Sea” can rescue it from its plainness. I’m not here to grumble, though, especially when the salted and aged Hereford beef hoves into view, sitting pretty among aliums and morels, and melting in the mouth. We nod to each other with an approving silence.

I’ve ordered a nothing-to-write-home-about Cornish Pinot Noir (Cicero, Trevibban Mill, £9 per glass) to buddy with the red meat; I should have listened to my new best friend from Poznań who was trying to steer me elsewhere, but honestly he lost me at minerals. Feldspar? Zircon? Also, I need to ask a waiter if he really said “driveway garlic”. “Correct.” “Whose driveway?” “The driveway of the hotel.” “Interesting,” I reply, remembering having to mount that particular verge earlier in the day because some unapologetically gargantuan SUV was barrelling in my direction.

The rhubarb with white chocolate and ginger has a satisfying crunchy base beneath a complex strata of confection – if I say it tastes of Haribo, I mean it as a compliment. The cheese board comes next (£17.50 supplement). Unfortunately I once lived next to a goat farm and, as far as my nose is concerned, goat’s cheese is billy goat urine in dairy form, but once all the Capricorn-derived products are duly removed there’s still a decent selection. Plus, a charcoal cracker in the shape of a heart, a nod to Romanticism, maybe, given that we’re only a stone’s throw from Dove Cottage, and I wonder what Wordsworth would have said, one laureate to another, seeing me guzzling this lot while sucking on a boiled daffodil stalk. I scribble 7¾ out of 10 in my notebook, with maybe a bonus quarter point for the wifi, which is lush and allows for the Googling of esoteric ingredients under the table. An hour later I want to strain my body through a layer of muslin to filter off the butter, cream, oil and salt that are the foundations of all contemporary fine dining. Either that or run up the fell and purge my soul in the sobering waters of Grisedale Tarn.

Forest Side, Keswick Road, Grasmere, Cumbria LA22 9RN (015394 35250; theforestside.com). Eight-course tasting menu £140, wines from £45

Photographs by Shaw and Shaw